Enchanted (27 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to feel sorry about. You’re sick, that’s all.” He lifted her onto the bed, removed her tennis shoes and socks, and reached for the button on her jeans.

Kathleen grabbed his hand, but she didn’t have enough strength to squeeze.

Mac sat beside her and pressed a kiss to her blazing forehead. “I’m going to see you soon, anyway. Let me make you comfortable.” He moved her hand, released the button, and opened the zipper. He carefully pulled down the jeans, holding her silk panties so they wouldn’t slide down along with the denim. He had imagined for weeks what she looked like unclothed, and it was only the heat of her body that kept his thoughts in tow. He wanted to make her comfortable, wanted to cool her fever, wanted her well so he could remove her clothes again with other thoughts in mind.

She closed her eyes, no longer concerned that Mac’s hands tugged at her jeans. His fingers cooled her skin as they brushed across her legs. She wanted him to press them to her face, to cool the burning that made her weak.

His fingers clumsily unfastened the buttons of her shirt and, sliding his hands under her shoulders, he lifted her gently so he could pull the fabric away. Her skin burned everywhere, quite similar, but oh, so different from the way he burned as he released the hooks of her bra. As much as he wanted to look, he tucked the sheet under her chin before he removed the lacy support. His fingers swept through her hair, pushing it off her neck.

His touch felt so good, so cool, She wanted him to keep his fingers at the back of her neck forever. And then he touched her cheeks, her eyes, with his lips. They, too, cooled her burning skin. She felt the shift of his body on the bed, felt him stand up.

“Don’t go,” he heard her whisper.

He looked down at her red, tired eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and try to sleep. I’m going to get a cool washcloth for your forehead. Maybe we can get this fever to go away.”

Kathleen closed her eyes, and slept.

oOo

Buzz!

Kathleen rolled over and slapped the snooze button on her alarm clock. “Oh, God. I don’t want to get up.”

“You’re not getting up even if you want.”

Kathleen’s eyes flew open. She sat up much too quickly, then grabbed her head at the dizziness she felt. Then she sensed Mac beside her, pushing her down, tucking the sheet beneath her chin.

She stared at the man who stood at her bedside with Julie’s
Beauty and the Beast
beach towel wrapped around his hips. Sick as she was, she stared at his stomach, the stomach she had imagined touching so many times. Flat, muscular, just as she had dreamed. No—better than she dreamed.

His cool fingers touched her forehead. “You’ve been asleep almost twenty-four hours, but you’ve still got a fever. Do you feel up to eating? Maybe something to drink?”

Kathleen shook her head. A drop of water dripped down his chest from his shower-dampened hair. She followed it with her eyes as it raced between his ribs, over his stomach, and disappeared into the hollow of his navel. He smelled of her strawberry shampoo and soap, and she doubted any man could wear a beach towel the way he did.

She turned her head to meet his eyes. He breathed deeply and seemed to hold his breath for an eternity, his jaw clenched, his eyes masked in a look she didn’t understand.

“No one’s ever looked at me that way,” he whispered.

Kathleen allowed her eyes to wander again to the towel. Her look spoke volumes. She wanted him, plain and simple. Why did she have to be so sick? She wanted the towel to drop. She wanted Mac to join her in bed. But she could hardly lift her arms; how could she enjoy everything she wanted to feel the first time they made love?

“I like your wardrobe,” she said with a weak grin.

He bent his reddened face and examined the towel he wore. “Is it the towel you like, or this dashing fellow holding the pretty bouquet?” he asked, pointing to the Beast.

“I much prefer the beast wearing the towel.”

His eyes closed and he inhaled again, running his fingers through his hair. “God, Kathleen. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

“Possibly the same thing you’re doing to me. Here I am lying on my deathbed, and you have the nerve to parade around in front of me in a damp towel that leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination. No wonder I have a fever.”

“Serves you right. How do you think I felt undressing you
yesterday
?”

“I didn’t want you to undress me. Besides, you led me to believe you were being gallant. I had no idea you’d enjoy doing it.”

Mac sat on the edge of the bed, bent over Kathleen, an elbow on each side of the pillow supporting her head. He kissed her warm forehead, the tip of her nose, her pale cheeks. “Let me tell you something,” he whispered, gazing into eyes only inches from his. “Never in my life have I felt closer to anyone than I did last night. I’d like to tell you I felt nothing when I removed your clothes. But I did. I feel something every time I touch you, every time I see you.”

Buzz!

“Damn that alarm clock,” Mac cursed, pulling away from Kathleen to shut it off.

She laid her hand against his arm. “I have to get up.”

“No. You have to stay in bed.”

“But I have a press conference this morning.”

“I’m doing the press conference.”

Kathleen stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t do my press conference.”

“I can and I am. You’re too sick to get out of bed.”

Kathleen used his arm to pull herself up. “You hate
Success
. How can you possibly say one nice word?”

“It may be your magazine, but it’s my company. Do you think I’d sabotage something that’s going to make money?”

She smiled, ran her fingers around his neck, and laid her head on his chest. “Did you hear what you just said?”

“Of course. I said I wouldn’t sabotage the magazine.”

“No, that’s not exactly what you said. First, you called it
my
magazine. Second, you said it’s going to make money.”

“A slip of the tongue,” he teased.

“You do believe in it, don’t you?”

“Believe in it? No.” He took her shoulders and lowered her to the pillow. “I believe in you.”

Mac sat in his office with Kathleen’s speech to the press before him. He penciled out words here and there, adding his own touches. He read it over and over, then wadded it up and tossed it into the trash can across the room.

He pressed a button on his telephone, and within moments the door to his office opened and Grace walked in.

“Are the press here yet?” Mac asked.

“Yes, sir. They’re waiting in the boardroom.”

He looked at his watch. “I still have fifteen minutes, don’t I?”

“If you were Ms. Flannigan, sir, you’d have fifteen minutes. If they know you’re speaking, they’ll stay longer.”

“Thanks, Grace. Ask
Rhonda Howard
to start her presentation first, and tell the press I’ll be making the closing statements.”

“Yes, sir.” She started for the door, then turned back to Mac. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I have a portfolio Ms. Flannigan put together about the magazine. Perhaps it might help?”

“Something I haven’t seen?”

“I’m not sure, sir. I told her I liked her ideas, and she asked me to take a look at what she had planned for the future.”

“And what did you think about her plans?”

“They’re wonderful, sir. She’s very creative.”

“Bring me the portfolio and tell
Rhonda
to get started. Tell her to stall till I get there.”

“Yes, sir.”

oOo

Mac walked into the boardroom as
Rhonda
made her last announcement. For years he had let his public-relations people handle the press, preferring to stay in the background. But this press conference was different. He wanted to do it for Kathleen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed the assemblage from the elevated podium at the end of the room. “I know Ms.
Howard
has done an outstanding job filling you in on the ins and outs of
Success
. Now I’d like to tell you what you don’t know.

“
Success
, like any other magazine, is a collaborative effort of many talented people. The staff of
Success
have put their heads together to bring to the public stories and features on today’s hottest issues—women’s issues, issues that are often overlooked in magazines directed to the successful people of this world.

“Most of you have known me for years. I rarely single out individuals, because I believe it’s the contributions of all the individuals at McKenna Publishing who have made this company prosper. But the woman behind
Success
has put her heart and soul into its production. The innovative ideas of its creator, Kathleen Flannigan, will make
Success
prosper
in print, as well as in digital format,
where other magazines of this type have failed, or merely survived.

“Ms. Flannigan fought me on several issues—things I knew would never work. Whoever heard of Saks Fifth Avenue advertising in the same magazine as WalMart? Well, Kathleen Flannigan made it work. Did you think Barbara Walters was the only one who could get an interview with Barbra Streisand? Wrong. Kathleen Flannigan brought Ms. Streisand together with a group of acting students starving for success. The picture is on the premier issue. Read the article for yourself and hear Ms. Streisand’s candid comments about the triumphs and tragedies of success.

“Putting together a successful magazine requires the talents of innovative editors, writers, artists, advertising execs, and the behind-the-scenes people who make sure the bills are paid, letters are typed, and appointments are made. But more than that, it needs the determination, perseverance, and enthusiasm of a person who believes in the magazine’s concept and who can infect the entire staff with the same determination, perseverance, and enthusiasm.

“Ms. Flannigan is that type of person. Unfortunately, she couldn’t be here today, or you would have been infected too. You’ve all been given advance copies of
Success
. Read them. Examine them. I’m anxious to see your reviews.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Excuse me, Mr. O’Brien. Will you accept questions from the press?”

Mac looked into the eyes of Morris Anderson of
The Tattler
. A question from Morris could lead to trouble, but the rest of the press seemed anxious for a question-and-answer period. “All right, Morris. Fire away.”

“Is Kathleen Flannigan the woman your picture was taken with at the Plaza, and is she the same woman you’ve been seen with on several occasions since?”

“Yes.” Mac didn’t feel the need to say anything more. He waited for the next question.

“Your speech touted Ms. Flannigan as a savior. Is it the magazine you like or Ms. Flannigan?”

Mac laughed, leaning over the podium toward the press. He didn’t need the microphone. His voice came across deep and resonant. “You used to work for me, didn’t you, Morris?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then you know I’m very verbal about my likes and dislikes. Yes, I like Kathleen Flannigan. That’s a personal thing between her and me. As for the magazine, I’ll go on record to say I did not like the idea, but Ms. Flannigan fought me every step of the way
,
and I gave in because nearly every idea she has developed for this company in the past ten years has been a success. I read this magazine, cover to cover. It’s good. It’s damn good. I suggest you read it cover to cover, too.”

“Mr. O’Brien,” a voice called from the third row.

“Yes, Dorothy,” Mac acknowledged the representative from
Culture
magazine.

“Don’t you feel the market is already saturated with women’s magazines? And how are you going to make this one succeed
in print, not to mention online,
when so many others are losing circulation?”